


In the Cold

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: It's snowing and there's only one bed at the motel...





	In the Cold

He stuffs his hands into his coat pocket. There’s years of grime there, grit that sticks under his nails but it feels like penance. He rubs it as he walks back to the car. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, chin tilted up, hair neatly tucked behind her ears, suitcase on her lap. She doesn’t turn much to acknowledge him, but he sees the fatigue around her eyes.

“Any luck?” she says, and her breath hangs in a silver cloud between them. “The storm’s not far off.”

He looks up at the foreboding sky. Rumbling, tumbling grey clouds rush overhead. It’s so cold his ears burn. “There’s a room.”

She looks up at him, a small glimmer of a smile hanging on her lips. She lifts the case off her lap and swings her legs round. Her shoes, impractical suede pumps with heels too high for this sort of motel, scrape across the frigid ground. “Thank God. I really need a coffee.”

He should say something. “Scully…”

“Hurry up, Mulder. It’s starting to snow.” She strides away, holding the case over her head.

The door swings in his face and by the time he makes it inside, the receptionist is dangling a key on an oversize hoop in front of her frozen face.

“Scully…”

“Mulder.” It’s a statement on the entire case. It isn’t a small disappointment at the news that there is only one room and that room only has one bed. It won’t matter that it’s a king with a jacuzzi. It won’t matter that he’ll take the couch, the arm chair, the floor, the fucking bathroom sink if he has to. Her tone, her Mulder is a judgement on everything that has gone before… the dubious light sightings, the dodgy witness, the temperamental hire car, the sexist sheriff. It’s all his fault and the culmination will now be focused squarely on the one bed.

He takes her case and they find the room. It’s damned nice. Clean, with pretty linen and a good tv. Cable! She disappears into the bathroom. For a long. Damned. Time. He sits on the chair. Then stands. He regards the art on the wall. Peaceful landscapes. He looks at the bed. Looks at the bathroom door. Back to the bed. He sneaks forward. Pushes the top. Firm with a little give. There’s still no sign of Scully so he plumps a pillow, climbs on and lies back. His shoes are dirty so he slips them off quickly. It would be so nice…so nice to sleep in the warmth and comfort of a good bed with his partner securely by his side. He has often thought about that. The dangers they’ve faced. The times when there has been the hint of something more than platonic between them.

The toilet flushes and he leaps off, pushing the pillow back down and smoothing away the evidence. When she comes out, she seems softer. His hopes rise. He eyes the bed. So warm and inviting. She eyes the couch, a faux-leather affair that will groan and creak much like he will by the morning.

“I’ll take it,” he says, picking up his shoes and slotting them underneath.

“Thank you,” she says, and there is gratitude in her brief smile. “But if it gets too cold or too uncomfortable, yell out.”

It’s the kind of invitation that’s meant to be conciliatory. But he’s still thinking about it when he’s washing his face. There was a certain note to her voice, a tone that struck him. It’s still lodged in his breastbone like a sprouting seedling as he pads back into the room. He can hear her breathing steadily, just the gentlest of sounds in the quiet. He looks out the window. Snow is hugging the glass. His breath leaves its mark in the vague shape of a heart and he feels a tug from somewhere inside. The seedling unfurling its tendrils of hope. He snorts a little, surprised by his poetic meanderings.

“Storm’s here.” He lets the drape swish back and arranges the spare linen on the couch. He wonders if his voice betrayed his excitement. He knows he’s spending too long tucking in the sheet when she throws him a pillow. “Thanks, Scully. And good night.” 

She switches off the light. “I meant what I said, Mulder.” 

As he stretches out on the hard surface of the couch, he tries not to groan too loudly. His skin bristles with gooseflesh. He smiles in the darkness. He thinks it might just get too cold pretty damned quickly.


End file.
